‘Where is Barak?’
‘You will shortly behold him face to face.’
‘Why have I been freed?’
The Vizier responded impatiently,
‘Who has said that you were free? You are not free. The Sultan is the least free of all mortals, being burdened with the cares of justice and government. The good sultan will always be a slave to his subjects.’
Now the impatient vizier turned and broke into a trot, heading towards a pavilion made of porcelain in the centre of the garden. Orkhan’s brains boiled with unanswered questions, but there was no time to ask them before he followed the dwarf through the door.
A baby gazelle was skittering across the porcelain floor, its legs splaying out as the little creature was unable to find any hold on such a smooth surface. Servant girls knelt around the gazelle trying to catch and calm it. A raddled, older woman sprawled back on a cushioned bench at the far end, laughing at the unavailing efforts of her servants. Orkhan found that he did after all remember her.
‘Mother, don’t you recognise me?’
The Valide Sultan nodded and waved her hands apologetically, yet she could not stop laughing. This was the woman who had let him be taken off to prison and left him to languish there for fifteen years. At last, one of the servant girls caught the gazelle, scooped it up and carried it out of the pavilion. Now the Valide Sultan’s eyes came to rest on Orkhan. Indeed, all the women in the pavilion were slyly watching him from beneath darkened lashes. No one said anything. He for his part stood transfixed, looking at the women. They were not like the women in the picture books he and his brothers used to study in the Cage. The ones in miniature paintings were slender, stick-like figures who gazed out expressionlessly from the pictures. But the real women in the pavilion were heavy, fleshy creatures, who, despite their size, did not seem to have quite outgrown the shapes of babyhood. Orkhan, seeing women for the first time in so many years, experienced pity for them, since all that softness, those fragile wrists, pendulous breasts and heavy bottoms ill-equipped such creatures for survival in a man’s world.
At length, remembering himself and guessing at imperial etiquette, Orkhan bowed to his mother. He came closer to seek her embrace. As he did so, she raised herself from the cushions and placed a finger on his lips.
‘You have been a long time in the Cage. Even so, explanations can wait. After fifteen years in the Cage, you must be impatient for a girl.’ She put on an expression of mock solemnity. ‘Very impatient… The Vizier will find you one.’
And she waved her hand in dismissal.
Outside in the garden, Orkhan told his Vizier that the girl could wait. The first thing he had to do was summon a council of ministers.
The Vizier, however, disagreed,
‘You are master of the Empire from the Euphrates to the Danube and there is certainly much to do, but first you must be master of your Harem, for a man who cannot master his Harem cannot master himself, still less an empire. Besides you need an heir as soon as possible. Now, would you like an ugly concubine or a beautiful one?’
‘What? Why would I choose an ugly one?’
‘Well, they say beauty fades, but that ugliness is eternal. Are you sure you would not prefer an ugly concubine?’
‘I am quite sure. Bring me a beautiful girl.’
‘Aha! You remember that earlier in the garden I told you that you were not free? Now you must see the truth of my words, for you must admit that you are not free, for you are not free to prefer ugliness over beauty. Aha! Caught you there!’
‘I see that I have much to learn,’ replied Orkhan carefully, thinking as he did so that on the following morning he would dismiss his Vizier. ‘Now, find me a beautiful girl. Let us get this over with quickly.’
‘I think I have a good girl for you on your first day. She is a Georgian. Since your Empire is at war with Georgia, she will be good training for you. Learning to ride her is like learning how to conquer Georgia. She will be the horse that will take you into the heart of their lands. Oh! One last thing. Do everything you please with her, except that, whatever you do, on no account should you let the viper drink at the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers.’
After washing and perfuming himself, Orkhan was conducted into a tiny rib-vaulted cell, which was richly hung with velvet embroideries, but yet not so different from the rooms he had been familiar with in the Cage. On the far side of the cell was a raised marble platform. On this platform was a bed and at the foot of the bed there was a lectern which supported a large open book. The place seemed surprisingly cold. Then, as he walked towards the platform, Orkhan looked down and saw that he trod on ice. The bed and the velvet hangings notwithstanding, the place was really just a cellar for the storage of ice. Mystified, Orkhan carefully made his way to the bed and waited. In the Cage he had read about the ice-pits of the sultans and how ice in great blocks was brought by racing camels from Mount Olympus and then packed down and stored in deep pits within the palace — all this merely so that the sultans could enjoy iced drinks throughout the summer. But why should he be here?
Orkhan had not waited long before he saw the door open and something come slithering across the ice towards him. In the half-light it might have been a dog or a jinn. Then the thing raised its head, and he saw that it, or rather, she was a woman who was dragging herself towards him. Her heavy earrings and bracelets jingled as she did so. She knelt on the edge of the marble and kissed his feet, before raising her face to him.
‘I am Anadil,’ she said.
She had large eyes and dark curls peeped out from an intricately-made cap of gold and silver filigree.
‘It is a pretty name,’ she continued. ‘Do you not think so? It means “Nightingales”.’
Orkhan tried gently to pull her up to his level, but she resisted.
‘Tell me first that my name is pretty.’ She was pouting.
‘Your name is pretty. Now come and sit beside me.’
Reluctantly she joined him on the bed. Again, Orkhan made to pull her towards him. Even though she was not strong enough to resist him, she still protested,
‘Not so fast! You are like a beast from the depths of the forest. I am not to be treated in this way.’
‘I treat you how I like. I am your Sultan.’
And Orkhan pressed himself against her, his swelling member against her thigh. He wanted to bury himself in Anadil. His hands moved over her body, seeking a way to strip her of her costume, but she looked sulky and kept shifting under his hands and, though her yellow silken robe with its unfamiliar hooks and catches, was flimsy enough for him to have ripped it off her, she was additionally protected by what amounted to jewelled armour. A girdle of pierced coins and amulets encircled her waist and heavy, many-layered necklaces hung over her breasts.
‘Slow down! It is as if you had never seen a woman before.’ Then she tittered as she realised what she had said. ‘But, of course, in the Cage there are no women! A body like mine is unfamiliar territory to such a one as you… Even so, if you have waited fifteen years for me, a few more hours’ dalliance is but a little thing. You have to please me.’
‘No, you have to please me. I am your Sultan,’ Orkhan insisted once more.
‘It is the other way around. Otherwise I will be unhappy and I will make you unhappy. It is no disgrace for a sultan to submit himself to a concubine, if he desires her, for that is the way of courtly love. In any case, I can see that I please you already,’ pointing to the swelling between his legs. ‘What have you got down there? It is very big, is it not? Is it not big because it likes me?’
Orkhan nodded.
‘I am pleased that it likes me. Does the rest of you like me?’